"Come forth, fair GALATE! and once got out, forget thee well (As I do, sitting on this rock) home to return again! } But feed my sheep with me, and for to milk them take the pain! } And cheese to press, and in the milk the rennet sharp to strain! } My mother only wrongeth me; and her I blame, for she Spake never yet to thee one good, or lovely, word of me: And that, although she daily sees how I away do pine. But I will say, 'My head and feet do ache,' that she may whine, And sorrow at the heart: because my heart with grief is swoll'n. "O CYCLOPS, CYCLOPS! whither is thy wit and reason flown? If thou would'st baskets make; and cut down brouzing from the tree, And bring it to thy lambs, a great deal wiser thou should'st be! Go, coy some present Nymph! Why dost thou follow flying wind? Perhaps another GALATE, and fairer, thou shalt find! For many Maidens in the evening tide with me will play, } And all do sweetly laugh, when I stand heark'ning what they say: } And I somebody seem, and in the earth do bear a sway." } Thus POLYPHEMUS singing, fed his raging love of old; Wherein he sweeter did, than had he sent her sums of gold. POLYPHEM's Emblem. _Ubi Dictamum inveniam?_ [Illustration] THE SIXTEENTH IDILLION. Argument. The style of this Poem is more lofty than any of the rest, and THEOCRITUS wrote it to HIERO, King of Syracuse in Sicily. Wherein he reproveth the nigardise of Princes and Great Men towards the Learned, and namely [_especially_] Poets: in whose power it is to make men famous to all posterity. Towards the end, he praiseth HIERO; and prayeth that Sicily may be delivered by his prowess from the invasions of the Carthaginians. This Idillion is named HIERO in respect of the person to whom it was written; or _Charites_, that is, "Graces," in respect of the matter whereof it treateth. _CHARITES, or HIERO._ POETS have still this care, and still the Muses have this care; To magnify the gods with Songs, and men that worthy are. The Muses they are goddesses, and gods with praise they crown; But we are mortal men, and mortal men let us renown! But who, of all the men under the cope of heaven that dwell, By opening of his doors, our Graces entertains so well That unrewarded quite he doth not send them back again? They in a chafe, all barefoot, home to me return with pain: And me they greatly blame, &c. That they went for nought they grudge; And all too weary, in the bottom of an empty hutch, Laying their heads upon their knees full cold, they still remain: Where they do poorly dwell, because they home returned in vain.